


parallels

by lionsenpai



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9220187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionsenpai/pseuds/lionsenpai
Summary: The parallels between the warden and the inquisitor, and what Leliana will do to prevent them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> one of two accidentally connected tumblr requests that got out of hand. this one was "leliana sees inquisitor and their love interest being all lovey-dovey and angsts about her dead warden"

“You have something more to discuss, Spymaster?” Josephine’s eyes dart up from her letter, voice dropping. 

Leliana recognizes that look. It’s the one she used when the Countess of Montsimmard tried to needle Yvette for stories about the Inquisition, the one she’s seen flash when an inkwell overturns on a newly finished missive. Never mind that the question might as well be punctuated with a hard glare. 

She tries not to let it dissuade her, angling her head toward the books lining the wall behind Josephine’s desk. “Don’t be like that. I’m only concerned, Josie.”

The scratch of quill to parchment grows louder, and Josephine lets out a clipped laugh under her breath. “Concerned enough to talk to Evelyn without my knowing? I am not a child, Leliana, nor do I want to be treated as such by you of all people.” The page rustles, and the writing stops. “Why would you purposefully sabotage—”

“It wasn’t _sabotage_ , Josie.” Leliana’s mouth twists. “This isn’t the time—”

“Oh, you need not tell me. Evelyn repeated what you said word for word, I’m sure. We all need to _focus_.” 

There’s a long pause, neither of them looking at each other, and the silence grows and festers until Leliana’s hands itch with it. Then the quill begins to move again, and Josephine says, “Well, I hope you’re happy. She hasn’t said more than two words to me since then.”

Nothing in Skyhold escapes Leliana’s notice; their seat of power must be impenetrable, secure. The Inquisitor is by far easiest to track, her morning strolls and visits to the gardens observed by all manner of beasts. The ravens watch her when she bows before Andraste, and by the time she’s finished her morning prayers, Leliana has heard which verses she whispered. Her routine is set: prayer in the gardens, breakfast with either Varric or Cassandra, a visit to the training yards to oversee the recruits, and on and on. When Mother Giselle and Quartermaster’s runner can divine the location of the Inquisitor with a glance at a sundial, even the slightest deviance marks cause for alarm. 

For the past week, Leliana’s birds have chattered of change, every note repeating the same thing: _Inquisitor Trevelyn is mixing poultices on the gazebo._

Josephine had complained of the smell of elfroot for a month when Evelyn visited her at Haven, laughing and fanning her hand by her nose. It stuck to her clothes, she swore, and though she did enjoy Evelyn’s interest in her position, she wished she’d take her salves elsewhere. In Skyhold, Josephine opened the window by her desk, and the two passed the time in turns of idle conversation and amicable silence. 

When Josephine finally admitted she hadn’t cared for the smell of Evelyn’s work but didn’t want to insult her, the two of them laughed so hard Varric came to ensure a couple of hyenas from the Western Approach hadn’t followed them back to Skyhold. 

Now Evelyn passes over Josephine completely, mixing her herbs under the falling sun until the torches in Skyhold burn brighter than the sky and then retiring to the library to discuss—loudly—politics and philosophy with Dorian. The wartable is all that can bring them together now, and even then, Evelyn is curt and polite, never quite meeting Josephine’s eyes. 

“Perhaps,” Josephine says, breaking the silence between them. “You should see to your duties now, Spymaster.”

Leliana’s throat tightens, a sudden fear settling like a stone in her stomach. She looks to Josephine, reaching for something that will salvage this conversation, but Josie gives her nothing, eyes firmly on the parchment before her. 

“Josie, there are… _Things_ expected of someone like the Inquisitor. We can’t know what she will be called upon—”

“Enough.” Josephine rubs her eyes, dropping her quill into the inkwell. “I am going to speak with Evelyn. Please inform your agents that I do not want them listening in—or you either.” 

She pushes her chair back, rising in a huff and smoothing the wrinkles from her garb as she passes Leliana. Josephine only pauses once she reaches the door, glancing back over her shoulder, her frown not so steely as telling. She opens her mouth as though to speak and then moves on, slipping out the door and leaving Leliana alone. 

Mouth tightening, Leliana forces her shoulders not to sag, makes herself breathe steady and even. She turns to the window—open, as if expecting—and sets her palms to the stone. 

Women like Evelyn Trevelyn are those of legend. They are immense, so large they can barely be called human at all. They belong in books beside Tyrdda Bright-Axe and Servana de Montfort, whole epics dedicated to their deeds. They shape the world with their hands, sow change in the hearts of others with their words, and, without exception, would die for their cause.  

Leliana loved a woman like that once, and when she was gone, Leliana watched the pyre grow with tears in her eyes, an emptiness in her heart. She knew then the cost of loving a woman the ages would not forget.

Ten years, and she can’t forget her either. 

Elissa lives in echoes, surviving in shadowed places and the sweetest dreams, the scent of her always gone on the breeze before Leliana can place it. She exists in the callouses on Cassandra’s shield hand, the hard determination in Solas’s eyes. Elissa exists in Evelyn’s easy smile when she’s with Josephine, so similar it’s almost choking. 

They are so similar, she knows. It’s why Leliana follows her so closely—and why she worries for Josephine and Evelyn both. 

Bowing her head, she wipes her watering eyes and says, “Perhaps they will be different.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand the other, which was "leliana / female warden (ultimate sacrifice ending) - after the events of da:i, leliana is finally reunited with her beloved warden"

“Here,” the Inquisitor says. “Stop here. Catch your breaths.”

Cassandra slows to a halt beside Evelyn, her eyes upon the sundered sky, fragments of earth mingling with the Breach. It is unholy, the magic Corypheus commands, the kind spoken of only in legend and whispered tales of Tevinter. Here, with the ground risen to touch the sky, with Archdemons and shapeshifters, Cassanda prays that her sword is enough.

Varric, Leliana, and Evelyn crowd the landing with her, their armor burnt and harried from Corypheus’s magic, from the claws and breath of his pet.

“We should not linger. Corypheus cannot seize the high-ground,” Cassandra says, taking slow, deep breaths.

“I know.” The Inquisitor glances over her shoulder. “Your arm, Varric?”

Varric gives a passing grin, his face red with exertion, and glances down at his bare arm. The skin’s raw, patches of it flaking off like he’d been splashed with a corrosive poison, but there’s no depth to the wound and the bleeding is minor. “I’m a dwarf, Inquisitor. These stairs are worse than any magic—even magic from a blighted, ancient magister. Our dragon friend is probably worse off.”

“Morrigan is more resilient than you know. We will find her after the battle is done,” Leliana says, grasping at the arrows in her quiver as if taking stock. Evelyn hands her four vials of her own concoctions, and she dances them between her fingers and then tucks them into her belt. “Our worry should be Corypheus.”

Cassandra nods, wiping the sweat from her brow, but Varric says, “And here I thought you came here to keep tabs on her.”

Leliana smiles thinly in his direction, but the Inquisitor fingers her bow, glancing between them. “Leliana and Morrigan have faced Archdemons and Darkspawn before. They’re most suited to the task, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, Evelyn nods to the next flight of stairs. “Come on. Cassandra’s right about meeting him on level ground. Varric—stay low. I don’t want Corypheus to take anymore of you.”

The dwarf mutters something about a short joke under his breath but pulls his crossbow from his back all the same, falling into line as Evelyn leads the way, an arrow nocked and ready. Cassandra jogs to the front, determined to be the first to meet Corypheus, shield in hand. She’s got the best chance of neutralizing his magic, her blood already thrumming in anticipation of a Purge.  

It must be luck that Corypheus isn’t waiting for them at the top of the stairs, or either the death of his beast took more from him than they’d dared hoped. She prays it is the latter and prepares for the worst, her head tucked, shield held high.

Cassandra crests the final stair and the blast of magic that hits her nearly rips her shield from her hands. She buckles down, getting low, and fields the next one better, bouncing it off as Leliana goes right, the Inquisitor goes left, and Varric ducks behind a crumbling wall. The sensation of his magic makes her skin prickle, sweat gathering between her shoulder blades, and she forces herself to peek from behind her shield in time to see Corypheus himself, orb glowing crimson and black, dark robes billowing at the howl of the wind. He snarls and curses, and his magic surges forward, the force of it enough to knock her off of her feet and plummeting down the stairs behind her.

Her training makes her drop her sword reflexively as she tumbles, just a hair shy of cracking her head on the edge of a step. The breastplate takes the most abuse, the hard corners pressing dents into her armor, but she finally catches herself a foot from the landing, dazed and dizzy but at least not speared on the end of her own blade. Cassandra blinks and grits her teeth, testing her arms as she scrambles to her feet, but she’s lost nothing but time.

Above, the sound of battle rings out, Corypheus issuing a challenge to the Inquisitor, the world, the Maker. Cassandra can hear Varric’s crossbow and the gasp of air as Evelyn’s concoctions burst into flame. She scoops her sword from the steps and rushes to the top, and this time Corypheus can’t blow her away before she finds cover, hiding behind a pillar just as a blast of his magic eats away the face of it.

“Seeker, we could use a little less magic right about now!” Varric calls.

“Yes!” She doubts he hears her, but it doesn’t matter. She wheels around the stone and raps the hilt of her sword against her shield, channeling her powers to Corypheus.

He shudders, but the magic around him only grows dimmer, and it’s all Cassandra can do to dive out of the way as another wave of it sweeps towards her. She slides behind another column at the edge of the platform, breathing hard. Even with her Seeker abilities, Corypheus commands more magic than she can drain. Hefting her shield up, she imbues it with nullification, knowing the best she can do now is offer it as a bastion against him.

Sucking in a deep breath, she chances a look around the edge of her sanctuary.

Magic flares between the Inquisitor and Corypheus, Evelyn’s face pale and sweaty, teeth grit as she flits from pillar to pillar seeking cover from the withering spells. They suck and sap, turn stone to dust and steel to rust, and Cassandra doesn’t want to know what they will do to the flesh of a human.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra calls as another pillar falls, the mortar blackened like ash. 

Evelyn is quicksilver, her armor catching the crimson hues of Corypheus’s magic as she dives for a low wall, but the miasma he commands attacks her before she can reach it, and she tumbles heels over bow, scrambling to pull herself behind the brick.

The sound of Corypheus’s laughter shakes the earth, and Cassandra’s gut churns, fear stopping her labored breath. There are no more potions, she knows, twisting around the stone to look for signs of Evelyn. The stone protecting her trembles and cracks as the insistence of the dark magic used against it, but of the Inquisitor herself there’s no sign. Cassandra swallows and readies her shield; they cannot lose the Inquisitor now.

But before she can move, there’s a burst of fire against Corypheus’s flank, and his voice pitches, snarling. He wheels around as another gout of flame envelopes his corrupted flesh and his magic dims, covering his face with his arms.

At first Cassandra believes it the witch, Morrigan, returned from her brush with death—but then she spots arrows feathering Corypheus’s shoulder and arm. Leliana advances on him, cover abandoned, and pulls arrow after arrow from her quiver. They impact with crackles of ice and gasps of flame, her eyes wide, expression grim. “You will not have her!” she declares.

“Worm!” Corypheus spits, and his magic rears and crests over him like a wave, ravenous. “Begone!”

“Leliana!” Cassandra screams, rushing from her shelter, shield held high. 

She rolls away from the devouring cloud of crimson and black, but it hounds her like a dog, snapping at her heels and turning the trailing tabbard of cloth at her waist to fetters.

Varric appears just long enough to fire three shots at Corypheus before darting between the pillars, bounding along the edges of the stadium to reach Evelyn, but Cassandra charges straight down the middle, unwavering. Corypheus sees her before she can strike, twisting back away from her thrust and clawing at the air, his magic rushing to defend him.

“Inquisitor!” Leliana rasps over the rush of air around them, but her voice is thick with pain.

Cassandra ducks behind her shield, gritting her teeth and imbuing it with a void not even this dark magic can overcome, and from somewhere far off, there’s a flicker of movement. In the swirl of chaos, Cassandra hears only a rip, the warp of space as a rift opens and the final scream of a magister who meant to become a god.

Then there is silence and stillness, and Cassandra’s shield arm gives, falling limp at her side. Before her, nothing remains of Corypheus, a faint fizzle the only proof of the rift that swallowed him. Corypheus meant to become a god, tore the sky asunder to make it so, and now, she stands where he fell, not even a trace of him remaining in this world. She’s light-headed, exhaustion throbbing through every inch of her, but it is done.

To the edge of the platform, Evelyn and Varric shamble toward her, the Inquisitor leaning on him heavily. Blood marks her footsteps, the armor around her feet rusted and breaking away with each limp, and the flesh beneath is red and raw. Even with her injuries, Evelyn meets Cassandra’s eyes and smiles wide, her hands trembling on Varric’s shoulders.

It’s only when Cassandra looks for Leliana that the bloom of triumph dies in her chest, warmth draining from her.

“Leliana!” she cries, dropping her sword and rushing toward the crumpled body on the ground.

Her armor’s flaking off, chainmail links snapping apart, and her skin is a bloody red, skin burned raw where the magic’s soaked in. Leliana takes wheezing gasps, each gripped with pain, but when her eyes fall to Cassandra, glassy and unfocused, her lips twitch. Her face is half lost, and with a thick swallow, Cassandra remembers there are no more potions.

“Your scouts will be arriving soon,” Cassandra says.

“Oh, don’t,” Leliana says as Cassandra touches a patch of skin on her throat. Her pulse flutters beneath Cassandra’s fingers. “It was worth it. Such a lovely story this will make.”

Cassandra grits her teeth. “Enough,” she says, trying to quiet her.

Her eyes, glassy and blue, turn on the space over Cassandra’s shoulder, and behind her, the Inquisitor and Varric approach. Cassandra looks up at them, but Varric stands slack jawed, composing himself well enough only to look away and mutter _shit_ beneath his breath, and Evelyn’s grin is gone, her expression pained.

Leliana regards them with a faint smile. “The hero will live this time… The Maker is kind.”

Evelyn makes a strangled noise. “Oh, Leliana…”

“Hush… I could not have let him kill you.”

Leliana opens her mouth as though to laugh, but her expression contorts and her laughter dies in her throat. With great effort, she intertwines her trembling hands over her chest and closes her eyes, her lips moving with some silent prayer. Cassandra recognizes it at once— _Draw your last breath, my friends; Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky; Rest at the Maker’s right hand; And be Forgiven._

It’s more than Cassandra can stand. She nearly jumps to her feet, turning sharply, and ignores Varric’s pointed look. She will not sit idly by as Leliana draws her last breaths. “I will find something—or someone—to help you.”

She ignores Varric’s pointed look when she rises, but Evelyn catches her shoulder as she tries to pass. “Wait Cassandra,” she says, her eyes never leaving Leliana’s body. She squeezes her shoulder, and Cassandra’s heart drops, blood running cold as ice. “Perhaps you should stay…”

Turning on the ruins, on the chance that Leliana might make it through this feels like losing Beatrix, like failing Justinia. Cassandra has only ever been good with her hands, only ever been able to follow and seek and _do_. “I am of no use here,” she protests, nearly pleads. The blood pools beneath Leliana now, the tatters of her clothes and armor stained through. “ _Please_.”

The Inquisitor glances to her and then back to Leliana. “Pray with me,” she says and kneels by her, mangled feet to her side.

It is the nail in the coffin. Her shoulders slump, voice stuck in her throat, and numbly she falls to her knees by the Inquisitor, her trembling hands clasped in prayer. Even the dwarf—even Varric—joins them, his eyes wide and seeing, his mouth a tight line. He can’t know the verses, and Cassandra can barely recall them though she knows them by heart.

“Draw your last breath, my friend,” Evelyn says, her voice taut and low. “Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.”

Leliana’s breath comes slowly now, her eyes closed, and she grows very still, her chest only rising faintly. Death is ugly, messy; it’s nothing like the stories that tell of going home, that Cassandra knows, yet Leliana is beyond pain now, her consciousness just barely there.

Varric sets his hand to her shoulder and repeats what Evelyn said, and when she opens her mouth to continue the verse, Cassandra joins their voices, saying, “Rest at the Maker’s right hand—” The wetness at her eyes surprises her, but once she’s realized it’s there, she can’t seem to stop it. Her hands shake, already struggling to breathe, but still she finishes, her voice. “And be Forgiven.”

The look that overcomes Leliana is relief, is warmth. She smiles, bright as summer and love, and says, “…My love _, at last_.”


End file.
